


Softer and More Beautiful

by Katbelle



Series: learn me hard, learn me right [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Author is quite sorry for this, Dubious Consent, First Time, Gift Giving, Language of Flowers, M/M, Madeleine Era, Movie/Brick Fusion, Symbolism, This is longer and not what I expected, This story didn't cooperate with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>M. Madeleine started receiving anonymous gifts. His mystery suitress turned out to be the person he least expected and he was not sure how to proceed, what to do with that information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softer and More Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt #15 for the Valvert Fic Exchange on Tumblr, as a pinch hit fic for someone who went AWOL. That's partially why this fic is only overall inspired by the prompt and doesn't fill it to a 't'.

**Softer and More Beautiful**

There were flowers lying on his desk when he entered his office at the mairie. A bouquet of them, long, beautiful things, orange and yellow and pink, tied with a thin ribbon. Valjean approached them slowly, as if expecting a ruse or a threat, as if they were just shy of jumping off his desk and attacking him. They did look like flowery swords, he supposed. He looked them over, moved them; there was no note on them, not a single indication of what they were, why were they here or who might have left them.

"I see you have found the mystery gift, Monsieur le Maire," came a cheerful voice from the general direction of the office door. 

Valjean straightened and turn round, to face the robust visage of his personal secretary. Madeleine had insisted — upon taking the mayoral appointment — that he had no need for a secretary, just as he had no need for the office in the mairie's beautiful building. Both fell on deaf ears; a mayor of the town had to have a seat for official business to be conducted, for receiving esteemed guests, somewhere that was not a cold and Spartan office in his factory. And as such, a mayor had to have a personal aid as well, someone to fetch things for him, to bring and order mail, to cater to the mayor's every little whim. That was how things have always been in Montreuil and even Monsieur Madeleine could not change that.

So thus, Eustache stayed and took care of the affairs while Monsieur Madeleine was at his factory or simply around town. Most days, Valjean was deeply grateful for young man's presence and dedication.

"I did," Valjean said. He looked at the flowers once more. "Who brought them?"

"I cannot tell you that, monsieur, for I do not know." Eustache crossed the room and put a cup of tea on Valjean's desk. "They were already here when I came."

"Interesting," Valjean muttered.

Eustache nodded. "It truly is," he said, gesturing at the flowers. "Those are gladioli. They are quite rare as well as quite expensive. They require care and not many people can afford them."

Valjean smiled, raised an eyebrow at him and Eustache flushed and made a hasty exit, mumbling something nonsensical about uncles and apprenticeships. The moment the door closed behind him, the smile disappeared. Valjean seated himself behind the desk and reached for the cup. He twirled it in his hand and he regarded the bouquet, frowning every now and then. He wondered who might have left it. Over the past years there were many women who tried to woo Monsieur Madeleine, counting first on becoming rich and then on becoming the wife of Monsieur le Maire. Valjean kept them politely but decisively at arm's length. It would not be fair to them if he did not; after all, Monsieur Madeleine was not real. Monsieur Madeleine was an ideal Valjean strived to and worked hard to be, but there was nothing substantial that was real about him. Monsieur Charles Madeleine was a name of a man with no history and false papers to substitute for it. Madeleine was not a person any woman could have and Jean Valjean was not a person any woman could want.

Valjean sighed and sipped the tea. It was too sweet, as usual, but he never had the heart to complain about it.

~***~

The second gift appeared exactly a month after the first. Once again it was lying on his desk when he entered the office, once again Eustache could not name the person responsible for it. Flowers, red and rose. Carnations, Eustache called them. A whole bouquet of them.

"I find I prefer their aroma to that of gladioli," Valjean commented. He signed a letter to the mayor of Étaples and handed it to the young man. Eustache took the envelope and put it under his arm, alongside some council documents he had brought for reviewing earlier.

"Yes, they do have a nicer smell. They are also much easier to maintain, they do not wither so quickly."

Valjean hummed then nodded when Eustache asked if he should bring tea. The young man left to come back with an ungodly sweet drink and Valjean looked at the flowers. Somehow less surprised by their presence in his office than he was the last time, he took out a crystal vase — a gift given to him by the mayor of Baccarat — and asked Eustache to fill it with water. The bouquet now adorned his desk and gave out a lovely, sweet aroma. Valjean took a deep breath. Yes, he rather liked this smell. Perhaps he will take the flowers home and ask his portress to install them in the dining room.

~***~

The third time it was a single red rose, another month later.

"I am beginning to see a pattern here," Eustache said as they sat by Valjean's desk and composed a request to build a new school They did not ask for any money — God knew Valjean had more than enough of that, and much more than he knew what to do with himself — but they still needed the assent of the prefecture; thus, their request had to be perfectly written, without a single fault that would cause anyone to deny them. Once again, Valjean was grateful for Eustache's presence; the young man was intelligent and had a good eye for mistakes, and the only person whose dedication to their work could rival Eustache's was Javert.

Ah, but Inspector Javert was a different matter altogether.

"What pattern?" Valjean asked and read through their letter once more. Surely, there was nothing wrong with it--

"The flowers." Eustache inclined his head in the direction of the Baccarat crystal vase. "Red rose symbolizes selflessness, sacrifice and romantic love. Someone is clearly ready to go great lengths for you, monsieur. Last month those were carnations, symbols of health, fascination and affection. And a month prior to that? Gladioli, which stand for love at first sight."

Valjean swallowed. "And what pattern do you see?"

"Pardon me saying that, but someone is falling more and more in love with you, Monsieur le Maire, and I believe they will not rest until you address their infatuation."

Valjean felt his cheeks heat up a little bit; if Eustache noticed — and why would he not, he sat just next to him — he was gracious enough not to comment. But the tiny smile adorned his lips for the remainder of the day.

~***~

"Monsieur le Maire has a suitress!" Madame Laporte exclaimed when Valjean brought the red rose home.

The portress rushed to him and took the rose from him, intent on drying it to preserve it, the way she had done with the carnations and the gladioli which were now standing in the drawing room. She liked to look at the flowers; Valjean would often catch her sighing and shaking her head, and muttering sadly about the mayor's self-imposed loneliness. When found out, she would loudly ask if Monsieur le Maire did not think the appearance of the mysterious suitress a sign from God himself that Monsieur le Maire should take a wife from among all the lovely young ladies who were all but dying to be courted by such a formidable man.

Valjean never answered her; he would only smile and remain silent, and cause Madame Laporte to shake her head some more and complain quietly about stubborn men who did not know what was good for them.

~***~

The attention, however, was nice, even if Valjean dreaded it at the same time.

~***~

Next time it was not a flower nor a bouquet. It was a book.

"Have you heard of such a book?" Valjean asked Eustache when the young man came in with the morning post. He showed the cover to him and the title page, where the words _Le Pirate_ were visible. Eustache shook his head 'no'. Valjean thumbed the spine. He shall read it as soon as possible; perhaps the subject of the book will tell him something about the mysterious suitress.

"Perhaps Monsieur l'Inspecteur has?" Eustache suggested. At Valjean's raised brow, he explained, "My mother is friends with Madame Laporte, and she had told my mother that you sometimes have the inspector over for dinner, that you talk about literature with him."

Valjean could not help but laugh. He was never going to become accustomed with this town's persistence in gossiping. What Eustache said was true enough, however; he did sometimes invite Javert for dinner and sometimes they did talk about books — more often than not, however, those invitations were refused. Madame Laporte was a wonderful portress, but — as Valjean noticed — she had a tendency to exaggerate everything. Monsieur Madeleine was neither that saintly nor that rich. Inspector Javert was not as famished as she claimed and complained about, mostly to Valjean himself. They did not spend that much time together and the time they did spend together was necessitated by their respective positions.

"Perhaps he has," Valjean said.

~***~

"I have read this book," Valjean said a few days later, when Javert was delivering his weekly report at the factory, as per usual. Javert raised a brow and that was enough of a comment on Valjean's taste in literature. Javert disliked every book Valjean had suggested so far. In his defence, though, Javert disliked also all the books Valjean did not suggest; it seemed that the good inspector disliked books and reading in general.

"Have you, monsieur?"

Valjean pushed the book towards Javert. The man's eyes widened a fraction. Interesting. "I believe you might enjoy it."

Javert's hand hesitated over it, but he did take it. A week later he returned it, claiming the plot was ridiculous and the characters idiotic. He disliked this one as well.

~***~

"Flowers once more," Eustache said in lieu of a greeting when Valjean entered the mairie. "Peonies this time. I took the liberty of putting them into water, monsieur."

"Thank you, Eustache." Valjean looked to the vase in which a couple of purple flowers stood. "What is the meaning to them?"

"There are a few meanings, monsieur. My uncle always said that peonies stand for wealth, honour and good fortune so he recommended them as good flowers for entrepreneurs. My aunt, however, claimed that they symbolize romance, love and happy marriage." Eustache shrugged. "I believe your suitress is getting bolder, monsieur."

~***~

The second book was called _L'Antiquaire_. It was entertaining enough, with its abundance of secrets, hidden treasures and people falling hopelessly in love. This one he did not show to Javert, predicting that the policeman will throw it across the room or into a fire just after a couple of pages.

He then simply mentioned it and its plot in passing. If the sudden grimace and twist of Javert's lips was any indication, the book would surely end up adding to Javert's meager fire in the man's fireplace.

~***~

A bottle of wine was a pleasant surprise. Valjean debated leaving it in his office at the mairie, to use it the next time a mayor from another town will visit, but ultimately decided against it. It was good wine, a good year. He selfishly wanted to keep it for himself. After all, it was a proof of his suitress' dedication, the fact that she thought such a bottle would be a good present.

The wine he put into a cabinet in the drawing room of his own house and swore to open it only at the grandest of occasions.

~***~

The gifts continued even when the summer came; they just became different. More often ripe and fresh fruits in little baskets would appear on the mayor's desk. Raspberries, cherries, currants, all sweet, all delicious. Then, between cranberries one month and blueberries another, there was a book, a third one. It was new, recently published. It still smelled like fresh ink. _Les Aventures de Nigel_ it was called and did not sound appealing in the slightest.

"Monsieur le Maire's suitress must be a fan of Walter Scott," Eustache joked when he saw the title page. All three books were written by the same author; it must have been the Woman's — as Valjean began to call her in his thoughts — tastes that were showing in her choices. Valjean himself enjoyed Monsieur Scott's works well enough but would not seek them out unprompted. Still, they piqued his interest in England. He could live there, he thought.

Then, another month later, there was another bouquet, this time of white roses, for innocence and charm, humility and reverence, as Eustache told him with a grin. This one Valjean took back to his office at the factory. It was summer and the flowers were beautiful, smelled divinely; they would brighten the room and bring an air of freshness to it.

Javert was startled by their presence. Every time he paused in his report, his eyes would dart to the flowers and he would stare at them until the moment he would snap out of the reverie, shake his head and continue talking. Still. He was unsettled. It was unusual and therefore it was interesting.

~***~

It was by pure chance that he discovered his mysterious suitress' identity.

~***~

It was autumn and the days were already beginning to grow cold, as they tended to in Montreuil. Javert took his well-worn greatcoat out of the closet and even began to put up its collar against the wind. It was not the warmest clothing Valjean had ever seen and it was mended in many places; granted, it was mended well but Valjean could still see it, attuned to noticing every little detail about Javert, about the man who had the power to ruin him if given a chance. How did that saying go? Keep your friends close but enemies closer. Valjean had no friends and he did not see Javert as his enemy; nevertheless he thought that being simply _aware_ of the inspector was a reasonable course of action.

Valjean was sitting behind the desk at his factory office. He was reading _L'Antiquaire_ once more; it was not the greatest piece of literature he had ever held in his hands, but it was amusing alright. He found he had a soft spot for this novel, as silly as that sounded. 

"It seems to me that Inspector Javert made the right choice," his foreman said as he entered the office with a stock of papers for him to look at, perhaps sign. 

Valjean lowered the book and frowned. "Pardon?"

"The book." The foreman pointed at it. "Monsieur le Maire seems to be enjoying it."

"I am," Valjean agreed, "but what has Inspector Javert to my enjoyment?"

It was the foreman's turn to furrow his brows. He tapped his chin in thought. "The inspector brought the book for you, Monsieur. Come to think of that," he cast his eyes around the room, "he is also responsible for the roses. And I have seen him carry a bottle of wine as well, a couple of months ago."

"Inspector Javert," Valjean repeated. Javert. That was a ridiculous notion. Javert. Of all the people, Javert. Surely not. Impossible. The thought made him feel warm inside.

The foreman scratched the back of his head sheepishly, as if embarrassed of what he was saying. "I live not far from the mairie, monsieur, and I always pass it on my way here. Some days I see the inspector carry something to the building and then leave for his patrol without it." He pointed to the book once more. "This was one of the things, I am sure of that. A cover in such a shade of green is not easily mistaken."

Valjean looked at the bright grass green cover and found himself agreeing. Even on the bookshelf in his house, this book stood out. One would not mistake it for anything. So, Javert. _Javert._ The thought was not unpleasant. There was something strangely satisfying at having captured the formidable man's attention thus. Valjean thought about a basket of strawberries that he had ordered to be brought to his house in the morning today. Javert. No, it was not unpleasant at all.

"Thank you," he took the papers away from the foreman and nodded at him. "You are dismissed."

When the foreman left, Valjean brought his clasped hands to his mouth. He would wait for Javert to come and deliver his usual report. And then he would--then he would ask.

~***~

"Is that all, monsieur?" Javert asked that evening after he had made a report of the weekly happenings.

"Yes, thank you." Valjean said. Javert bowed and turned on his heel to leave when Valjean spoke again, "Actually, stay, if you may. I need to properly thank you for the strawberries."

Valjean watched Javert's back straighten and tense, the hand hanging loosely by his side clenching into a fist. Javert turned back to him very slowly.

"Monsieur le Maire?" he asked.

"The strawberries you left in my office at the mairie," Valjean explained. A grimace passed Javert's face. "In fact, I have never thanked you for the flowers and the books you have gifted me with either. It is a grievous omission on my part, forgive me."

"I have not gifted you with anything," Javert said, then hastily added, "Monsieur le Maire."

"No?"

"No." They remained silent, Valjean said nothing to that declaration and that seemed to prompt Javert to explain. "All those things were gifted to _me_ , in fact, by Madame Davy. She seems intent on winning my--my affection with presents, not realizing how inappropriate that is. She also seems unable to accept the fact that I am not interested in her advances."

Madame Davy. Ah. That, truthfully, explained a few things. Madame Davy was a sturdy woman of forty years old, a rich widow of a man who earned his fortune in slave trade across the ocean. Her husband died a couple of years prior, leaving her with a great fortune and a little daughter; Madame Davy has been hunting for a husband to take over the money and her daughter's upbringing ever since. She was the only woman in town not to pursue the mayor at all — she concentrated all her willpower and advances on Montreuil's chief of police instead.

That explained the gifts. It did not explain why those gifts ended in Monsieur Madeleine's possession.

"And you for some reason believed that passing those gifts onto me was less inappropriate?"

Javert flushed a dark crimson and he lowered his eyes, unable or unwilling to look at his superior any longer. He clasped his hands behind his back and fixed his gaze on the floor, to which he also addressed his next words.

"I thought that--I thought--I simply thought that Monsieur le Maire would appreciate them, find pleasure in them."

Find pleasure in them. Yes. Yes, he did.

"Thank you, inspector." Javert moved his head slightly in what would be considered a nod were his head already not bowed. "I would like you to join me for dinner tomorrow."

"Monsieur le Maire--" Javert protested.

"I would find pleasure in having you as my guest," Valjean interrupted him. 

Javert's blush intensified, though a mere moment ago Valjean did not think that possible. "Monsieur--"

"I can make it an order instead of a request." 

That was often the only thing that convinced Javert to come, all the times he actually did come. It was autumn and it would be winter soon, and Javert would once more have to compromise between having a warm meal and a warm fire in his fireplace. Valjean tried to give the man money; but Javert refused everything he considered a charity or pity and the municipal council did not grant Monsieur Madeleine's request of increasing their inspector's salary.

"Of course."

"Dismissed, Javert."

~***~

Madame Laporte prepared a stew for them and made a strawberry tart out of the fruits that were brought to Valjean's house the day before. The bottle of wine was standing on the dining room table. Madame Laporte bid her goodbyes early, as she usually did when Inspector Javert was expected, and went to visit her daughter and son-in-law. A few moment later the doorbell rang and Valjean went to greet his guest, take his greatcoat. The first couple of times Javert was startled by the absence of servants and the fact that the mayor tended to him himself; by now he was used to this particular habit and did not even ask for the portress, knowing well where she was and why she was sent away for the evening.

They ate the stew in silence, and Valjean thought that Javert was trying very hard to keep himself from wolfing down the dinner. It was delicious, that much was true, Madame Laporte was a fabulous cook, but that was not why. It was autumn, the nights were already cold. One had to make certain sacrifices. Valjean itched to ask when was the last time Javert had eaten a full warm dinner, but was apprehensive of the answer. The last time he asked that, last winter, when he had invited Javert for the first time, the man paused to think about his answer — paused! to _think_! — then shrugged and replied, "earlier". Quite an earlier it must have been.

"There is a strawberry tart as well," Valjean said as he poured another glass of wine for Javert and himself. They were becoming pleasantly warm and tipsy, the wine was sweet and strong.

"I like strawberries," Javert murmured and raised the glass to his lips.

Valjean went to bring the tart; he cut it in equal slices and took one for himself, one he put on Javert's plate. He had to lean in to do that; from that close, he could see a few droplets of wine in the corner of Javert's mouth. Without thinking, he went to wipe them with his thumb. Javert's eyes fluttered closed. The wine was red on his skin, red like blood.

Valjean fell back on his chair and looked at his own plate. He cut a piece of the tart and brought the fork to his mouth, "Madame Laporte made good use of the strawberries you brought."

Javert wet his lips. "I can see that."

But he was not looking at the tart. He was looking at a shelf hanging by the fireplace, a shelf on which a collection of dried flowers rested. Gladioli for love at first sight, carnations for affection and fascination, red rose for romantic love and sacrifice, peonies for honour, romance and love. Valjean sipped his wine and wondered what Javert knew about the symbolism of flowers, if anything. Perhaps he did not realize the significance of the gifts he simply passed from one person to another.

But perhaps he did that on purpose. The thought made heat pool in his belly.

Javert stood up from his chair and moved towards the shelf, stopped directly in front of it, in front of the fireplace. The light of the fire illuminated his silhouette, shaping it a bit, toning. Valjean swallowed while Javert reached for the red rose.

"Red means love," Javert murmured. "Pink is gratitude, orange is desire, yellow is friendship, white is purity and lavender is enchantment." So he knew. "But it's not just the colour, it's the number of flowers as well. One is love. Two is an engagement. A dozen stands for gratitude while fifty are supposed to show unconditional love. You never see anyone buy fifty roses, they are expensive after all, so I guess there is no such a thing as unconditional love."

Valjean put down his glass and stood as well. He moved to Javert's side. "There was only one," he said in a hushed voice that bordered on a whisper. He took the rose from Javert and put it back on the shelf, facing away from the man and his gaze. In this light, Javert's blue eyes were almost black.

"Yes, I know."

Javert wanted him to find pleasure in these gifts. Well, he would and did find pleasure in this. He turned back. He cupped Javert's cheek in his palm, then trailed his fingers down the side of Javert's neck, feeling the pulse underneath his fingertips speed up. Javert allowed that. They should not be doing this, he should not be doing this. It was the wine coursing through his veins, surely. He was not Madeleine and Javert could not know that, and yet he wanted, he wanted to take this, this, this pleasure.

He bent his head and pressed his nose to Javert's neck, just above his collar, where the skin was exposed. He breathed in. Javert did not smell like flowers or strawberries, there was a tangy earthly scent to his skin, like tea and parchment and cigarette smoke and, strangely, apples. Valjean's tongue flickered out and he licked the skin and tasted only sweat.

"I want," he murmured into Javert's skin. "May I?"

The reply was so quiet he almost missed it. "Yes."

He did not kiss Javert properly, on the lips, for such kisses were meant for lovers. They were not lovers, they were not even honest with one another. So instead Valjean loosened Javert's collar, removed the leather stock and dropped it on the dining room floor. He kissed and nibbed the skin of Javert's neck and throat, and Javert allowed that too. He allowed for his jacket to be removed, which left him in his old shirt that was not pristine white anymore. He allowed himself to be led to the hallway and then to Monsieur Madeleine's Spartan bedroom which was not a cave of a hermit. He allowed the man who was not Monsieur Charles Madeleine with no past and false papers to push him onto a bed, upon the linens which were not soft but were comfortable enough.

Valjean took off his waistcoat and threw it to the floor. He stretched himself over Javert, sucked at his neck a mark that will be visible in the morning. He dragged his fingers across Javert's clothed chest, drawing a sharp intake of breath. He moved lower, to unbutton the trousers; he grabbed the hem of them and pulled them down. Javert raised his hips to help along and Valjean managed to disrobe him of both the trousers and the underclothes at the same time; Javert's thighs fell open and Valjean fitted effortlessly between them.

He lifted the hem of Javert's shirt and kissed at the man's navel, then placed another kiss at the edge of his hip. He busied his hands with undoing his own buttons and with pulling his own clothes down. Soon the trousers were gone, but the shirt stayed, it would have to to cover the lash marks upon his back. Javert's stayed as well, not to rouse suspicion. Valjean ran his hands down Javet's calves, grabbed at them and bent his legs, guided them around his waist.

He only vaguely knew what to do. He has never done this before, not with a woman and certainly not with a man. But he wanted, God, he had no words for how he wanted. He knew the basics, he knew of the things the men did with each other in Toulon; he knew of all the things his chainmates spoke about, about what Delon spoke of, the things he did with that boy of his. 

He spat on his palm, once, twice, again, and slicked his cock as much as possible. That was how these things were done, he reminded himself. With one hand he took hold of one of Javert's legs — the hair on his calf was smooth and slick with sweat, the grip was not steady nor ideal, Valjean moved it higher, to the knee, it was easier to hold onto bones than muscles — with the other he guided his cock. He had to go slow and try hard to get in at all, still too dry, tight, so tight it almost hurt to be inside, but the pain was just on the right side of pleasure. He pushed a little bit further inside. Hot, so hot, sweet Jesus, Javert was--

Javert was staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. His hands, clenched in fists, with fingers digging into his palms, laid uselessly on the covers, by his sides, and he was puffing out short, shallow breaths, as if he was trying to calm himself, as if he was trying to relax, as if he--as if he _knew_ what to do, like it was not a first time. Valjean pressed his knees more firmly against the mattress and he thrust faster; Javert's face was twisted by a grimace, he shut his eyes tight and knit his brows, tilted his head to the side, towards the wall. His lips were wet, parted, _moving_ , but no sound was coming out; he was whispering something, repeating it like a mantra Valjean could not make out.

Valjean sneaked one arm around Javert's back, sat up, pulled the man with him; the change in position made Javert sank onto him, made Valjean slip further inside and Valjean could not suppress a moan at the feel of Javert's weight on his cock. With one arm still around the man, supporting him, pressing him close, he used the other one to touch, he ran a hand up and down Javert's clothed back, dragged his fingers across Javert's naked thigh, digging nails into the soft flesh.

Javert was gasping short, shuddery breaths that were not the groans and moans of pleasure he came to expect while in Toulon. That was for the best, he supposed; he did not want to think of that place, not ever, not _now_ , this was something he was taking for himself, something just his, untainted by the memories of prison. His hips jerked and he felt Javert squeeze his legs around his waist, he felt Javert's hands run up his back and twist in his shirt, he saw and felt the man press his face to the juncture of Valjean's neck and shoulder, hiding away.

And Valjean moved, easy, slow, he thrust shallowly up and used his arm around Javert's back to hold him to him, down onto him, and it should have been dirty, it should have been ugly but it wasn't. He shifted his hips and it was still borderline uncomfortable, and there was a strange tension building inside him. He licked along Javert's neck and jaw, placed a kiss behind his ear; the tension in him built up, crept to its peak and he sped up his thrusts. Javert whimpered, his fists relaxed and clenched again in Valjean's shirt, and he still kept his face buried in Valjean's neck. There was a wetness there, a patch of wet cloth that he felt against the heated skin of his shoulder.

And then, just like that, something happened to him. His body felt tight and then it snapped, he felt as if he were taken out of his skin, as if the scorching fire of his fireplace replaced his insides, ignited him from head to toe. For a moment — a mere second or two, but what felt like the longest second or two of his life — there was nothing but that overwhelming, spreading fire. He pushed, he pushed Javert back onto the bed, fell on him, pressed his forehead to the man's breastbone and tried to catch his breath. Soon the feeling subsided and the tremors died down, and he felt like himself again, sated, loose and weak. He did not mind that. This was the most intense orgasm he remembered ever having and the first one shared with another human, the only one that was not forced out of him by the use of his own hand.

He leaned in to kiss the underside of Javert's stubbled jaw, he felt his soft cock slip out of the man's body, and he felt something press against his thigh and what--Oh, _oh_ , Javert, he did not, he hadn't--Valjean looked up, to Javert's face, but he was once again facing away with his brows furrowed and eyes closed, and his lips were still moving soundlessly. Valjean sneaked a hand between them and gripped Javert's cock, and _then_ he heard him, a tiny cry punched out of him, so small that he would not have heard it were he not lying so close. He tugged and pulled at Javert's cock, fisted it, thumbed its head and the underside of it, just like he liked, just like he would do for himself, but it was so different, holding another's cock, the weight of it foreign in his hand. He placed a kiss on Javert's collarbone. A bite at the side of his neck. A nip at his earlobe. A lick at the corner of his mouth.

Javert was still whispering and up this close Valjean could almost make out the words, and it took him a moment to realize that the words he was murmuring were a hushed litany of _I can't, I can't, I can't_. Valjean froze momentarily. Perhaps his grip became too tight, perhaps he twisted his hand just right, the cock in his hand twitched and Javert came, hot and wet and messy, all over Valjean's palm. The sound that he made was less of a satisfied moan and more of a sob.

Valjean moved off him and Javert took the opportunity, rolled onto his side, curled slightly on himself with his back to Valjean. Valjean reached out to touch him; his hand stopped halfway to the man's shoulder, hesitated. He dropped it. He laid on his back and put his arm over his eyes. The room reeked of sweat and sex but it was the silence that was suffocating. Still. The wine and the release made him content and satisfied; he was asleep before he even noticed.

~***~

He awoke to the first rays of sun that fell through the blinds on his windows. His body ached in the most pleasurable of ways. He was sore but warm and content, and there was a body lying on his right, cold to touch after spending the night deprived of sheets, which Valjean had unconsciously wrapped all around himself, as was his inclination. Valjean felt a pang of guilt at that and an even bigger one when he recalled the course of the evening, their activities. There were a few specks of blood on the sheets, over the place where Javert's hands rested the night before, where he clenched his fists, where his fingers dug into his palms hard enough for his fingernails to break skin.

He should not have done it. It was a mistake. It was angry and it was layered with lies and omissions. If Valjean had ever thought that keeping Javert close would be beneficial, if he ever thought that this might help him dispose of the anger and resentment and fear, he was wrong, he was so painfully wrong. It did not burn anything out of his system, it just added to the confusion, tangled it all up in knots, past feelings mixing with present. He should not have done it, he should not have wanted and he should not have allowed himself to take.

He got up and out of the bed, he reached for his discarded trousers and put them on. He sat down in a chair standing by the wall, near a wardrobe, and pressed clasped fingers to his mouth as if in a prayer. He watched Javert sleep; briefly, he was tempted to go over to the bed, to pull the covers over his body. He did not, didn't dare to, didn't do it. He watched Javert sleep, tense, and he watched Javert wake, a different sort of tension settling over his shoulders.

Javert sat up on the bed, grimaced, looked around the room. Their gazes locked. Javert's face softened, there was something new in his eyes, something warm, and something almost vulnerable in his expression. Something stunning and unexpected lingering in the corners of his lips.

"You are beautiful," Valjean surprised himself with saying.

Whatever it was in Javert's eyes, in his expression, it shattered upon hearing those words. He still looked at Valjean — at Monsieur Madeleine, Valjean reminded himself — but the warmth was gone from his eyes, they were once again the icy blue that belonged to the feared Inspector.

"No," Javert said. He cast his eyes around, trying to locate his own trousers. Valjean offered to hand them to him, Javert glared at him coldly and just snatched them himself. "I am really not."

**Author's Note:**

> Big, BIG thanks to my wonderful Gay Besties who patiently talked anal sex with me and all but made me flow charts on how that works exactly. 90% of my knowledge comes from them; they said this would work and I decided to believe them.
> 
> Also big thanks to Ann, who is the most wonderful florist's understudy I have the pleasure of knowing. Without your input there'd be no story.
> 
> Last but not least great thanks to Soldan, for her encouraging words that prompted me to add and tweak a few lines. This is still very much Valjean's POV, but I hope now the subtle hints at certain, ah, sensory reactions are less subtle. ;)


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